afterglow
by Hedonistic Opportunist
Summary: In the aftermath, John freaks out and Sherlock is ...Sherlock. Ficlet. No spoilers.


_**afterglow**_

Disclaimer: I own _nothing_.

**Notes**: Pretty simplistic. But not dull or bad, I hope. Criticism is love. (It goes without saying that this is my first fic for this fandom, and that I hope to write _more_ and _better_).

...

The nine am traffic of London wakes John up.

Blearily, he cracks an eyelid open – his vision swimming as he takes in the striped bedsheets and room that looks similar to his own, but isn't _his_ . He doesn't recall having ever possessed a fascination or tolerance even for pinning newspaper clippings to the wall.

Not before meeting Sherlock, at least. But then _Sherlock_ –

John freezes, finally grasping that the warmth he's engulfed by isn't just coming from the bedsheets wrapped around him, but the body snuggling against his. A warm body, all long limbs, pale skin and, as his gaze travels upwards, John catches sight of a messy tangle of dark hair –

_So soft to the touch when he buried his fingers into it last night._

His breath hitches. Other images from_ last night_ whirl through his brain - frighteningly vivid images that make him blush, despite the fact that he's not new to sex, and that waking up to someone pressed naked against him isn't a novel experience either.

But then being thirty-something hasn't made John shed his inborn shyness, and it's not an everyday experience to wake up naked next to your flatmate who's not only very naked, but also very much_ male_ .

John sighs. It's not the gender that bothers him – he's been in the army and seen and heard his fair share of things as a doctor, but the fact that said flatmate is probably the closest thing to a best friend he's ever had. Not a best 'mate' that you go to the pub and bemoan the lack of girlfriends with, but a 'best friend', yes.

The best friend you steal horses with, and would give your life for.

And it's insane, John thinks, as he looks down at Sherlock's face, uncharacteristically peaceful and innocent like _this_, that he'd have found this best friend in a madman who solved crimes for a living and believed that keeping heads in the fridge was bloody _normal_.

John shakes his head. None of Sherlock's antics really bother him (_much_) anymore. If anything, he's come to accept them like he's partially accepted the fact that he'll only feel alive when the adrenaline of danger pumps through his veins, and he's aiming a gun against anyone who dares to even touch Sherlock.

Because he'd rather sully his hands in blood again than facing a life without Sherlock.

He doesn't quite know how he's managed to live without Sherlock till now. Not that it really matters. He just knows that he needs Sherlock. And that whatever happened last night shouldn't destroy anything between them, so if …

"Stop staring at me," Sherlock's sleep-riddled voice says, and John freezes, but only momentarily. He takes a deep breath.

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock just sits up, the smallest hint of a wince leaving his mouth as he does so, but he still manages to look surprisingly unaffected … and himself as he pulls the bedsheets around his body, and rolls his eyes. "You're making breakfast today."

"Pardon?" John doesn't ever recall an instance when Sherlock _did_ make breakfast.

"I don't think I'll be able to walk for the next … " Sherlock chews on his underlip, and frowns, "-well, I'd say that one hour and forty minutes is a safe bet."

John just stares, wondering if _this_ is Sherlock's cruel idea of a joke or he really doesn't mind the fact that …

As always, Sherlock acts right before John does. "_Stop thinking_, John – it doesn't suit you."

In a blink of an instant, John realises that Sherlock's hands are on his shoulders, and that a pair of soft lips is pressed against his. The kiss doesn't last longer than a few seconds, but John forgets how to breathe, and his heartbeat quickens.

When Sherlock pulls away, 'Sherlock' is all John can find himself saying, and he smiles stupidly (just like a schoolboy). And suddenly, everything is so very, very clear.

John hurriedly gets up and dresses – realising that this is as good as he'll get. It's hardly romantic or beautiful, but _real_ because Sherlock has, yet again, shown him that changes don't have to be bad, and that the only thing that has really changed between them is that now people shall have something to _talk_ about.

But that's not the best (or worst) about it: what really makes John smile is that neither he nor Sherlock really care. John shakes his head: Sherlock's craziness is rubbing off on him.

"Breakfast will be ready soon. I'll bring it to bed," John says, and Sherlock just nods, slides back down on the bed and closes his eyes, soon oblivious to the world around him.

Not that it matters, John thinks because, like this, he has the sheer affirmation that Sherlock will be there when he returns.

...


End file.
